Just Like Him
by Pasta and Sin
Summary: What if Arthur was the one going to war? What if Alfred was the one stopping him?


Just Like Him

"Arthur!" Alfred grabbed the Englishman's arm, attempting to pull him back from the war that's furiously raging around them; attempting to stop him from marching into his own inevitable death; and most especially, attempting to hold on to that one person before he forever disappeared upon piles and piles of faceless corpses on blood-stained fields; _before everything was too late._ "Not you, _please_ , not you, too."

Arthur froze in place, unable to look at his best mate in the eye. His shoulders were hunched, as if he was trying to shrink away from the American, and as if doing so would make his existence seem smaller. He took a shuddering breath, saying, "Let me do this, Alfred."

"Let you do what? Kill yourself?!" The American harshly tugged at Arthur's arm, making the other face him. In that moment, Alfred got a glimpse of the crumpled and defeated look on his friend's face.

The Englishman's eyes almost held no life. The vibrant emeralds he once saw were forever lost in the depths of those dulled green eyes and the pained expression Arthur held didn't make it any better. It was almost as if he had experienced years and years of the same thing up to the point that it became exhausting; it was almost as if he was _broken_.

"Alfred, _please,_ " Arthur pleaded, his hand reaching out to touch the other's that gripped him with such strength; that gripped him as if he would immediately vanish into thin air if his friend didn't hold him tight enough. Unlike Alfred's, the Englishman's hand was cold. "Let me go." After giving Alfred's hand a slight squeeze, he brushed it away.

Alfred was pained by how easy his friend could brush him off. It was almost as if he didn't mean anything to him. "Listen to yourself, Artie! You sound ridiculous!" The American huffed, proceeding to push Arthur with defiance and the other simply winced in response. Alfred paused to look straight into Arthur's eyes, hoping this was all some sick joke, but the sombre expression the Briton had was enough to silence the unsaid words between them. He felt so hurt, so angry, so _scared._ "You can't be serious. You can't be – "

"Alfred."

"You aren't really leaving, are you? You're not stupid enough to… Arthur, think this through. Acting rashly is my job, not yours, for crying out loud! You should be the reasonable one – You're supposed to – ah, dammit!" The American looked away in an attempt to blink back the tears and he clenched his fists, frustrated with not only Arthur, but with himself as well. "I thought you were – "

" _Alfred._ "

"What?!" The American growled back.

Before Alfred can mutter another word, Arthur pulled his friend into a hug, silencing him while patting his back saying, "It's going to be alright, mate. I promise. Everything's going to be okay."

Alfred found tears welling in his eyes. He tried so hard to convince his friend not to go, to stay with him, to realise how idiotic he sounded, but it seems that he failed. The one thing he needed to do the most and even at that, he still can't succeed. He leant down on the Englishman's shoulder, soft sobs escaping his lips as he clutched the military uniform Arthur wore.

" _How?_ How's it going to be okay?" Alfred whispered in between blubbers. The Englishman ran a hand through the other's matted hair and continued to pat his back in a soothing manner. "Don't leave, Art."

"Oh c'mon, Al. You're going to make me tear up as well." Arthur joked, but he knew he was close to tears as well.

"This is stupid," came the muffled reply from the American. He continued to cry, mumbling, "You and your stupid decisions and stupid eyebrows and stupid country. God, I hate you, Artie. Stupid f –"

"What?" The Englishman moved away from Alfred, making the other stumble forward. Suddenly, the creeping grief that hovered over them was replaced with annoyance. Arthur scoffed, "I don't see how my eyebrows are related to this."

"How can it not be, dummy." It was more of a statement than a question. Alfred brought the sleeve of his coat to his face to wipe the snot away and muttered incoherent words under his breath, something about Arthur being stupid and being a huge ass.

Arthur shot the other a glare and rolled his eyes, but Alfred seemed to be busy sulking to notice. "See? You got my uniform all wet, you git." The Englishman quickly stated as he pretended to examine the dark blot on his shoulder. This is an attempt to lighten the mood up a tad because despite all that nonsensical _stupid_ things his friend has been saying, his once-electric blue eyes were still glazed over with tears and fogged with anxiety. What used to be a lopsided grin on that dynamic face was now pulled into a taut line and Arthur hated seeing Alfred like that. It just didn't suit him.

"I hate you."

"Oh, we both know you don't mean that, love."

There was no reply. Arthur sighed and walked towards Alfred again, ruffling the American's already messy hair. "I'll come back, I'll be home. Don't worry much, Al."

Alfred finally glanced at the Englishman's direction, saying, "Promise?"

"I promise."

And that was the last that Alfred has seen of Arthur Kirkland. He simply held onto the Englishman's promise of returning, all the while seeing the back of his friend walking to the bus that would send him to his doom. Still, Alfred held onto his word and waited for his best friend's return.

* * *

The funny thing is that Arthur did come home 4 years later.

Alfred can still remember it as if it was yesterday. The moment the doorbell rang, he raced to the door and opened it, nearly unhinging the poor thing in hopes to see a letter sent by his dear friend or better yet, Arthur himself, but it wasn't going to be that easy, was it?

" _Are you Alfred Jones?"_

" _Yeah, that's me."_

" _We're sorry to inform you that Private Arthur Kirkland has…"_

The American didn't need to hear the rest of what the officer was saying to know. The soldier's grim face and the crinkled letter in his hand said it all.

"… _Thank you."_ Alfred choked out the words and waited for the man to leave before he softly closed the door, the crumpled letter, falling, falling, falling.

He slid to the ground, a strangled cry escaping his lips. He tugged at his hair in disbelief, but the words on the damn letter refused to change _. Killed In Action._ They couldn't even retrieve the fucking body. They couldn't give him a proper funeral. Heck, they might as well bury an empty coffin.

Alfred banged his fists at the floor, his grief uncontainable. This has to be some kind of cruel joke. Life must be laughing at him as he wailed in agony, the silent bawls broken by his tears.

It was only two days ago that he received a letter from Arthur saying all was well. Specifically, the Englishman complained about not being able to bathe for weeks and how outrageous the odour he and his companions had, but that was his way of putting a tad humour in every aged and worn down letter he sent to Alfred. He'd joke about wanting to strangle a lieutenant or so, and always end the message with telling Alfred not to worry because unlike the _sloppy moron_ , he can very much take care of himself, and _those_ were the kind of letters Alfred looked forward to, not _this._

Arthur _did_ come home, but as a letter saying he has passed away, while his body remained forgotten along with the other corpses in a land not even his. That's the sad thing about it. He's rotting away on foreign soil and he couldn't even truly come home. That's the devastating part of it all.

Now, it has been 51 years since. 51 years since the blasted war ended and 51 years since the government and the supporting organisations has been commemorating _heroes_ of the Second World War. 51 years since Alfred F. Jones has been attending this particular event just so when the name _Arthur Kirkland_ was mentioned, he could proudly say, "That—That idiot right there is my best friend."

Though, there was something odd that particular day. As the usual people flocked the area—men and women with greying hair and wrinkled skin like his along with their grandchildren and families of the veterans who has passed—there was a strikingly familiar blond hair and intensely green eyes that stood out in the crowd.

Alfred, being the impulsive person he is, instinctively approached the young man and casually tapped the younger boy's shoulder. The boy turned to face the aged American and Alfred nearly gasped.

Why, he'll be damned! The boy had impressive eyebrows and wore a scowl that was painfully familiar. For a moment, Alfred was taken aback. This young lad looked exactly like Arthur before the Englishman went to war and the thought alone reopened old wounds and heartaches in Alfred.

He gave a pained smile at the younger boy and said, "You look just like him—"

The scowl the boy wore immediately vanished and it was replaced with an equally forced smile. "I missed you, too, Al."

* * *

 **Hey, guys!**

 **It's been so long since I wrote oneshots and boy, does this feel great. It's 3;24 AM and I'M ON A ROOOOLL.** **Oh, this was an experiment. Sort of. Well, you see, I've always had the idea that when there's a war,** _ **who**_ **would usually jump to sign up, being patriotic and all? Ya got that right! Alfred! So, one night, as I lay in bed staring at my ceiling, I thought, "Hey, what if we do it the other way around? What if Arthur went to war instead?" And thus, the birth of this story.**

 **And… *wails in agony* Writer's block is a bitch, just thought ya'll should know.**

 **Here's a tip tho: JUST KEEP WRITING, MAH DUDES. WRITE NOW, EDIT LATER. WRITE DRUNK, EDIT SOBER. JUST DO IT. That's how you finish a damn story, if you're wondering.**

 **Oh, and can you guess what Arthur here is? Gosh, I love these kinds of AU.**

 **That's all folks!**


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